


don't make me wait another day

by smallredboy



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Emotional Infidelity, First Kiss, Gentleness, Love Confessions, M/M, Prompt Fill, almost no mentions of period-typical homophobia, towards their wives i mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 03:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15306783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: During a late night, the President and his Secretary of Treasury finally come clean about their feelings for one another.





	don't make me wait another day

**Author's Note:**

> for a prompt thats been sitting on my tumblr inbox for ages. i love whamilton so much let them be in love goddammit.
> 
> enjoy!

Washington had stopped calling him son after his outburst ages ago, but it isn’t near enough. Hamilton wants his touch, fervent and needy and desperate. Hamilton wants him, wants him so bad he could choke on air at the thought. He’s imposing, taller, bigger, commandeering — he makes every one of his hairs stand on end. Hamilton married a Schuyler and has kid after kid with her, but it’s not enough.

Washington makes him the Secretary of Treasury. Hamilton — he’s thankful, a little prideful on the fact. He’s got no experience leading something like that, and yet Washington makes him his secretary. He works on the economy and on dealing with the effects of a war and deals with running their own country.

After a few months of being in Washington’s close circle, Washington’s cabinet, he thinks he’ll break. He’s around him so much, and he can see the man’s lingering gaze on him. It’s almost wanting, but Hamilton tells himself that he’s imagining things. The President is twenty years older than him; the President is married to his dear Martha; the President isn’t like him at all.

All it takes is a late night at work.

Washington walks into his office. He’s as imposing as always — taller and carrying himself with a pride that’s humble in a way. He’s the President, yes, but he still took a twenty-year-old from the Caribbean years ago under his wing. Now the same young man from the Caribbean is thirty-two and it’s been so damn long. 

And he hasn’t stopped thinking about the ex-General, now President that way. 

“Sir?” he says softly, looking up at him from his desk. There’s ink on his fingertips, and his handwriting is a little messy. His hand doesn’t go at the speed of his thoughts sometimes.

“Alexander,” Washington replies. “Can you get up from your seat? This is an important discussion we should be having. I’d prefer for you to be as much as to my height as you can be.”

Hamilton snorts. “Sir, there’s no need to point out my height,” he says as he gets up from his seat, walking towards Washington so they’re close to each other. “What do you want to talk about, Mr. President?”

“A couple of things,” Washington says, taking a breath in. “I’m not asking you for malicious intent, Alexander. Nothing will happen if you tell me the truth.” Hamilton’s brows furrow by that introduction. What is Washington going to ask him? “Were you and John Laurens in a bond past camaraderie?”

Hamilton stiffens a little. “Why do you ask, sir?”

“To see if you’re anything like me, Alexander.”

_ Oh. _

Hamilton’s breath catches in his throat. Washington is asking him — he’s asking him if he’s anything like him. He’s also a man with a desire for other men.

He gulps and looks up at Washington. “Yes, sir. My bond with John Laurens went beyond camaraderie.”

Washington bites his bottom lip, looks at Hamilton in a way that’s so intense he can’t even begin to describe it. “I’ve been harboring feelings for you, Alexander.”

Hamilton can’t breathe for a second. He looks up at Washington, almost thinking it’s, somehow, a joke. But Washington’s gaze has never been so serious, so intense.

“For how long?” he asks, mouth dry.

Washington shifts his weight, face full of something similar to discomfort. “I realized it after I told you to go home.”

That was in 1781. 

Washington has known he’s got feelings for Hamilton for nine years. The thought makes Hamilton dizzy. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. What is he supposed to say? There’s a lot he could say. 

He mouths  _ please _ , no sound coming out of his mouth. Washington closes the distance between them all too slowly, almost gauging his reaction with each step. As if he’s waiting for him to be uncomfortable, to be uninterested.

“Can I kiss you?” Washington asks. He doesn’t put a hand on Hamilton’s side, or on Hamilton’s hip, or Hamilton’s cheek. He’s waiting for him to say yes, to let him into his heart. The thought makes him warm inside out.

“Of course, sir.”

“Are you saying yes out of obligation, Alexander? Be honest.”

Hamilton grins exasperatedly. “No, George. This isn't out of obligation. I promise.”

The use of his first name seems to shake Washington out of his worries. He immediately cups Hamilton’s cheek, looking at him in a way he can only describe as loving. He gulps, and Washington’s lips meet his. He tilts his head up and digs his fingers into the older man’s coat.

Washington is so gentle when he kisses him. He cups his cheek with his hand and their lips meet and he moves so slow and so sweet. Hamilton thinks he might die. He gets himself as close to Washington as possible, chests close together and both left breathless once they pull away.

“Washington,” he breathes, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“You have been harboring feelings for me too, have you not?” Washington asks him, tilting his head and smiling. Washington smiling is a rare sight — and he caused it. His whole body warms up.

“I have, Mr. President.”

Washington chuckles and shakes his head. “Please, Alexander. We just kissed, we just admitted to feeling a certain way for one another — you can call me George.”

Hamilton bites his bottom lip and nods. “Of course.” He doubts for a second before saying, “George.” The name sounds foreign in his mouth; he’s called Washington by his first name once or twice. It doesn’t exude formality or professionality or respect like his last name does. He likes it.

“Alexander,” he says right back, a grin making its way onto his face.

Hamilton tilts his head up, makes eye contact with the older man. “You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever met.”

“You too, Alexander,” Washington says in a whisper, leaning down to kiss him again. His lips are dry but they’re  _ Washington’s _ . He couldn’t care less.

Hamilton lets out a soft sigh and looks up at the older man. At the President himself, there, engaging in a crime for his Secretary of Treasury. Fuck, he’s so in love. “I love you. I love you, George.”   


“God,” Washington breathes, and he’s kissing him again. “I love you too, Alexander.”

Hamilton decides he can take a break as he sits on the edge of his own desk, Washington towering over him.


End file.
